Zombies, Zombies Everywhere
by marleysauce
Summary: A blood-spattered notebook. Whoever it belonged to is probably dead.


A little one-shot I whipped up. I dunno, I have a headache. May or may not continue.

Zombies, Zombies Everywhere

They're banging down the doors. I can't believe this. Everything we've done, all the shit we've survived, and this is how we die.

Everything started in Atlanta. People started getting bit, though nobody seems to know why. I really don't think it matters at this point, either. People were dying, then coming back, and their corpses had an appetite that would put a competitive eater to shame.

It hasn't stopped. I don't think it ever will. Now that we're trapped in this utility shed with the only way out blocked by a horde of the dead, I'm pretty sure that someday the only thing that'll be left walking on this earth are a bunch of rotting cadavers.

Walkers. That's what we call them. Walkers, geeks, biters, lame-brains, creepers—they all mean the same thing, and I've heard all of it and more. They're dead, but they have a craving for flesh. Doesn't seem to matter if it's human flesh, or bunnies, or what have you. I've seen people bait them with pigeons—put the bird in a cage, and it attracts walkers like a magnet. Then you can line 'em up and drop them as you please.

Seriously, though. Scary as these assholes are, they sure are dumb. That's what pisses me off. A bunch of mindless dead people have destroyed the whole world, and trapped us like rats. I can't be sure how many of us are left. And by "us" I mean actual living people. What I do know is that those of us who I've encountered lately aren't exactly helping the cause.

Last week we almost got slaughtered by a group of bandits. Bandits. Can you believe that shit? You know civilization has gone down the tubes when you're being accosted by a group of what basically amounts to land-pirates. We barely got away from them, and look where it got us.

I guess it's a miracle I even survived this long. That doesn't mean I'm ready and willing to bite the bullet, so to speak, but if this is how it's going down then I don't have much choice. I'm tired of running. It's all we've been doing. Maybe it's best that we take a stand. If we live through it, then maybe there's still some hope left. I mean, I've taken down my share of walkers; I stopped counting after twenty three, and that was a few months ago. Not too shabby for an ex-dog walker.

I really miss my dogs. They weren't mine, but…they were. I dunno. I was walking those furry little bastards for three years. I hope at least some of them are still alive, but if I'm being real, I know I haven't seen a dog in weeks. Haven't even heard one barking. Maybe they're smart enough to know that they need to be quiet. Some people might scoff, but dogs are smarter than you think. There's gotta be some species that can outclass the walkers, and if it can't be humans, then I'd rather it be dogs.

God, these things are persistent. We've been sitting here for an hour, and they haven't let up. I started writing to keep my mind off the snarling and banging, but it's not exactly easy to block out. Or get used to. And…I think there's something wrong with Julie. I think she's bitten. She's pale, sweating, shaking, hunched over in the corner. I asked her how she's doing, and she snapped at me.

I really don't wanna be trapped in here with a walker. Especially one that I knew, even if Julie drives me a little cuckoo sometimes. But I don't wanna jump to conclusions, either. Maybe she's just scared shitless, or…something. Ugh, I won't let paranoia get the better of me. That'll just make it worse.

At least the shed is made of something sturdier than wood. Yup, it's a nice little metal box for us to roast in when the sun comes up. It's already stuffy as hell in here. It's making my head hurt.

Hang on a second. The banging stopped. Not all at once. It sort of tapered off. I think—Dave just looked outside. They're wandering away. Something else caught their eye. Jesus Christ. I'm so relieved my heart hurts. I can't believe it. How fucking lucky are we?

We're packing up. Dave and Marlowe are making sure the coast is clear.

Oh my God. Julie is dead. Amber went to wake her up, and she's fucking dead. I was right. She was bitten! Everyone is arguing, but the choice is clear—we have to make sure she doesn't turn. She wouldn't want to be one of those things. I'll do it myself. Let the others shout until they're blue in the face, I'm not letting anyone el

x

Found this notebook in an abandoned shed. There's some blood on it, and the words are kinda smudged. Guess whoever was writing it didn't get a chance to put Julie out of her misery. There's some bodies on the floor, heads blown off. Don't know what went down, but I'm sure not opposed to taking their supplies. Seems a shame to let them go to waste.

Sorry dog-walker, whoever you were. I guess your luck ran out.


End file.
